


Theory Of Soulmates

by hoshruba



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Crisis, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Questioning Sexuality, Sequel, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4191006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoshruba/pseuds/hoshruba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a loud, unfamiliar city, with loquacious night skies, Makoto meets a boy with startling blue eyes who seems to know him from somewhere.</p><p>-Sequel to Catch A Falling Star-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> LOOK WHO'S BACK!!! :D I'm so excited to be writing the sequel to Catch A Falling Star. Nervous too. Thank you to everyone who read, cried, commented, gave me kudos, MADE FANART (THAT IS THE BEST!), are working on translations (SO AWESOME), of Catch A Falling Star. Thank you to Orchideous for being an awesome editor and soulmate. I hope you enjoy this offering, too. Good luck to me and happy reading to you!

It is a hot day on the beach. There is pleasant, damp sand under Makoto's feet, icy lemon on his tongue as he licks a popsicle. He tugs at his orange tank top as the sun burns on his shoulders. Makoto skirts along the ocean line, catching his mother's reminder to be careful. A wave nudges shyly at his feet and his little footprints disappear. The next wave sweeps him off his feet. He vaguely feels the heat on his shoulders die out as the sea monster pulls him under the dark, fathomless ocean. His limbs are heavy, the monster squeezing his lungs; huge and invisible. Makoto's shouts echo in his ears, his body burns. It’s like someone is dropping giant drops of black ink into the water. His family had been just a few feet away. They wouldn't have seen him disappear. They’d never know what happened to him. Darker and darker until there's only a pinpoint of light and only a mouthful of air. Makoto jolts in his bed, eyes snapping open, heart and lungs working frantically.

_Breathe, Makoto, breathe._

Still shaking and out of breath, Makoto makes his forearms and legs move. They aren’t pinioned. He listens to see if he had shouted, if it had woken his parents up. He had had that under control at least; with a lot of practice. He hardly ever makes a sound when he wakes up from a nightmare. Then, he looks around his room, seeking pools of light: a smiling cloud night-light near his head, glow-in-the-dark stars shimmering on the ceiling and along the walls, a soft oblong of street light on the floor. Reassured that his room has no dark, secret corners, Makoto gingerly gets up from the bed, pulling his sweat damp t-shirt off. Making his way carefully from the packed cardboard boxes, he goes to the bathroom, switching the light on immediately. He puts his head under the faucet, feels the water trickle down his spine, drinks it in hurried gulps. 

_Just a nightmare. You're awake, you're home._

Lying down on the bed again, arms askew, feeling the water cool off his chest as he stares at his starry ceiling, Makoto makes a mental note to check if the glow-in-the-dark stars are removable, so he can take them with him to Tokyo.   

* * *

It had surprised him, the epiphany of what he wants to do. It is a ‘good job, Makoto! Very imaginative!’ written on his homework that stirs in him the idea. He is good at making stories; proven by Ren and Ran. At their bedtime, he often reels off from their story books, creating his own endings. He can’t draw to save his life, but, words come easy. Children are simple, their stories are simple.

That would be fun; writing for children. He had looked it up over the internet on impulse and found that a handful of universities in Tokyo offered majors in creative writing. Wrestling with the possibility for a while, weighing it against the tuition cost and his sibling’s futures, he had looked so pained that his parents sat him down for a talk. That was a few months ago, and now he will be leaving for Tokyo in a week.

* * *

 To: Asami

let's go for a picnic this weekend. :) how about that park we went a while ago to with all the ponds? 

 

From: Asami

okay! i'll see if I can make those little cakes you like :D 

 

To: Asami

nooo don't trouble yourself! but I do like those

 

From: Asami

don’t be silly Makoto. I want to. love you xxxx

 

*new message*

To: Asami

love you t

love y

see you then! :D

xxx see you then! :D

*sent*

* * *

He suspects Asami knew what he was going to say before he finally pushed himself to say it, ripping out grass between his fingers, collecting words. She hardly looks surprised, only dismayed.

"Why are you always doing this to me?"

Makoto looks up in surprise. “Doing what?”

“Taking something that is about you and turning it into something about me. Why are you making it seem like it’s for me? Have I said I want to break up?"

In his mind, Makoto hears something begin to ripple. Things like when once Asami had asked him if he felt jealous when other guys complimented her, asked her to hang out with them, and he had replied no with a laugh, and she had seemed disappointed.

"I don’t... Asami, it seems impossible. How will we even meet each other? And the cost of travelling? I'll be busy with my studies and- and I mean, I'll have to study really hard. With all that, how could we make it work? I don’t want to ask this of you." 

Why can’t she understand this? He is doing this out of consideration for her. He isn’t selfish enough to ask her to travel every weekend to Tokyo just so they can meet for a few hours. They’ve been dating since his 2nd semester at the university. They had met for the first time at a student mixer, made to sit together by their respective not so subtle, insinuating friends. It had been nice enough- she was smart, bright and pretty. He was apparently supposed to ask her out promptly which he hadn’t done. “What’s wrong with you, Tachibana?” Nothing, he had thought, looking at the bewildered faces of his friends. Nothing, I’m fine. When he ran into her a few days after, he asked her out.

He likes her. He likes to kiss her, listen to her talk about her annoying sister, watch her smoothly twist her long dark hair into a messy bun without using a tie. "Asami, I’m thinking about you-"

"No, you're not! This is about you! Why am I always the one to push you?" she cries, her voice rising. Makoto jerks in surprise. She deflates, looking over at the pond, at the family sitting on the other side. A languid gust of breeze sweeps over them, tangling through the grass fronds, the cloth spread under them, Asami’s hair. He catches the smell of the cakes she had made for him. "Sometimes, Makoto,” she continues softly, “sometimes you seem so passive and... like you're just going along with it." She turns to him, moving closer on her knees. "I’m your girlfriend. Not just a friend. Be selfish. You have to be selfish in love.”

It is such a giant, over whelming word. Love like his parents share, love like in the movies, like the quest of a prince and princess for each other in his siblings’ bedtime stories.

"I love you, Makoto. We can do this. I can do this." She reaches out for his hands. Her fingertips are cold. This has to be love. There must be something missing in him to not recognize it in her.

 "Yeah," Makoto looks at her and smiles widely, "we can do this." Her kiss tastes sweet. To him, his own feels inadequate in reply.

* * *

The first thing Makoto notices about Tokyo is how loud it is. Noise seems to reverberate in the air. In his bare, alien apartment, Makoto sets a framed photo of his family on his study desk, places Asami's good luck charm in front of it, desperate for familiarity. He unpacks in a rush, setting things out to make it seem like home. He feels disconnected and wonders when the excitement about Tokyo will set in now that he is actually there. The night sky is bright. Blurry hum of the city rumbling and rushing into the night lulls him into uneasy slumbers, fluorescent stars blinking with his sleep heavy eyes. 

He explores the city a little; a few parks, the zoo, looks for a simple, inexpensive place to eat since his cooking his abysmal and destructive. It makes him feel better. Everything is new and exciting. Sometimes, a little too new. He waits for the term to start, hoping for a busy studious routine to give him something to hold for balance.  This is all much harder than it had seemed.

* * *

It's his first day at the university. He’s dreading introducing himself in each class. Yet again, his name meets with giggles and laughs but that does not bother him anymore. This is why he came to Tokyo, he reminds himself. To know more and be more. Each subject gets a section in his new notebook.

Then, he meets a boy. 

In a loud, unfamiliar city, with loquacious night skies, a boy with startling blue eyes seems to know him from somewhere, and offers Makoto the seat next to his with a shining smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR THE ENTHUSIASTIC RESPONSE TO THIS! :D  
> Also, thank you to May, themorninglark and Danii for their help.

Haruka pushes open the doors. “And this is the computer lab,” he says, glancing quickly at Makoto, who smiles in response before Haruka just as quickly looks away. He seems to do that a lot, Makoto thinks. Haruka had offered to show him around campus and Makoto had agreed, arranging to meet after his creative writing class. But he found him waiting outside in the corridor.

“Thank you for doing this, Haruka-kun. This place is so big. I can easily get lost here.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to thank me. We share the same campus.”

They fall back into silence. Haruka doesn't seem to mind so Makoto doesn't try to break it, quietly walking alongside him. He follows him into a corner, seeing a plaque declaring the direction to the library. They enter the spacious wing, brightly lit, with labyrinthine shelves, and large windows looking over the university grounds. Makoto finds it completely different from the small, intimate library he had back home; with dark wood shelves and his usual spot tucked between the history section. This construction of black shelves, grey-blue carpet and glass reminds him of his new and overwhelming situation.

“Would you mind if I look around for a bit?” Makoto asks. Haruka shakes his head. “We can meet back here, if you have something else to do…”

“No, its fine. I have to get some books anyway. I’ll be by the check-out desk.”

Makoto nods and turns towards the labyrinth.

* * *

 

Half an hour later, Makoto finds Haruka, holding three slim books to check out. He looks over Haruka’s shoulder and whispers near his ear, “So you’re studying art?” Haruka jumps, startled. He rubs his ear which is turning pink rapidly. Makoto take a step back, hands in the air.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.”

Haruka opens his mouth to say something but closes it, his throat moves to swallow the arrested sentence, still rubbing his ear. “Sorry,” Makoto apologizes again.

“It’s okay. Just… yeah, I’m an art major.”

The librarian returns Haruka’s books and they leave. He notices Haruka is walking a little away from him, his ears still a little pink. Haruka says something and Makoto barely catches it.

“What about you?” Haruka asks.

“I want to be a writer,” Makoto replies. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do until recently and then it was like, yes, this is what I want. But they didn’t have a program for that back home so here I am.”

“Going to write books?” Haruka navigates them to a bench. Makoto drops his bag and stretches his legs, not knowing how tired his legs are until he sits.

“Mhmm. For kids.” Makoto grows a little warm saying that. It sounds silly out loud. He surveys the green expanse, dotted with groups of students and concrete islands of benches and tables, against the horizon of campus buildings. “I’m not sure though-”

“No, it’s a good idea,” Haruka interjects. Makoto grins at him, relieved. Haruka looks away and says, hesitantly, “My… my grandmother used to tell me stories when I was a kid. You could tell stories to a lot of kids.”

“Maybe you can draw for my first book, Haruka-kun,” Makoto says, still grinning. Haruka pauses, hands curling over his books. Then, he looks away with an almost Ren-like pout.

“I’ll consider it if you stop saying Haruka-kun. Just Haru.”

Makoto chuckles. “Okay. It’s a deal. Haru.”

* * *

Once the term starts, it really gets going. Makoto scrambles to synchronize with it. His Japanese history class is ridiculously early. He only has time to get ready and grab a sandwich for breakfast before sprinting to catch the bus; though it’s not like he could make a decent breakfast even if he did have enough time. He forgets where his classes are, all the halls look similar. It helps that Haru seems to be there. Just there, incidentally. Makoto is often this close to breaking down in frantic relief on seeing Haru. His pitiable state would also explain why Haru always agrees to help him, considering he’s observed Haru to be quiet and reserved in the classes they share. He doesn’t converse with anyone other than answering politely. He always saves a seat for Makoto for which he’s grateful.

Haru often stops taking notes in the middle of lectures, staring out the windows or falling into reveries. Sometimes he even pauses mid-drawing during those breaks, nodding off, balanced on his palm with an ease that seems practiced. Makoto once tried to wake Haru by tapping him with his pencil and then whispering his name, but it only led to Haru jerking awake, red eared, rubbing it while sending him weird, disquieting looks throughout the rest of the class. Makoto settles on the theory Haru has sensitive ears or something. Now Makoto leaves Haru alone when he dozes off. Instead, he says a little “hi” when Haru comes around and nudges his notebook towards him, asking if he wants to copy his notes, or offering his notes altogether after class if Haru doesn’t come to until the end.

Haru is quite intense for someone who is this introverted. He carries his own atmosphere. He has a curious habit of initiating half a sentence and leaving the rest in his eyes or expressions for Makoto to figure out. It feels more than what one would ask of a casual acquaintance or a classmate, which they both are to each other.

He also cannot rid himself of the feeling that Haru seems to know him, or thinks he knows him. Like the time when Haru had taken him to see the pool, eyes shining and almost dragging Makoto inside the sports center, completely ignoring Makoto's question whether they were allowed inside.

"I take it you like swimming, huh?" he had asked. "I used to swim when I was a kid. Kinda lost my interest in it after a while."

The look Haru had given him was of pure confusion. “What? You don’t? But you…” he looked between the water and Makoto, then seeming to catch himself he shook his head.

Makoto thinks maybe he is imagining it. But he does ask his mother if he knew someone like Haru when he was a kid. Though, he thinks if they had met before, he wouldn’t have forgotten someone like Haru, a gaze like Haru’s.

* * *

Makoto’s greatest challenge is cooking. In an effort to control his spending, he tries to cook his own lunch, instead of eating out every day. The result is him having to eat half burned vegetables and smelling smoke in his apartment for days.

With his Japanese history class running longer than usual, his stomach grumbles miserably. Haru gives him a questioning glance. Makoto replies with a sheepish smile, mouthing an apology. After the class, sitting on Haru’s usual bench, he offers Makoto his lunch, with a barely suppressed smile that Makoto doesn’t see on him often. Makoto almost dies of embarrassment. Haru stares down all of his polite rejections. And really, that lunch isn’t helping him say no at all. He caves and with a thousand repetitive thank you’s, which almost cause him to choke on the food, he shares Haru’s lunch.

“I’ve tried, really. But I just can’t cook at all,” he laments, holding Haru’s perfect spring roll to the light.

Haru glances at him casually. “Yeah, I know.” Pauses. “I mean, you never eat lunch here. And you carry all these snacks so I guess you don’t have a proper breakfast. Meaning you can’t cook.”

Makoto bursts into a laugh. “Wow, Haru, you’re so observant.” _Of me._

Since then, Haru brings two lunches and they eat together. On that bench near the fountain. Sometimes sitting behind it when Haru feels like lying down. Makoto gushes embarrassed gratitude every time. Haru’s cooking is amazing; though Makoto could do with a little less mackerel. Haru also coincidentally makes a lot of Makoto’s favourites.

“I swear, it’s like you’re using mom’s recipe.”

Haru, looking at the sky through a weathered leaf, turns to him in surprise. “Your mom?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s as good as-“

“Your mother… as in…”

Makoto looks at him quizzically, replaying their conversation in his head and finds nothing to merit Haru’s confusion. “As in my mom. Haru, are you okay? You look a little…” _like when I told you I don’t like to swim._

“Can I see?” Haru says, “Can I see your family?”

Makoto shows him the family photos in his phone, confused by Haru’s interest in them. “Wait,” he says, over a photo of his parents. “You look just like your mother.” Haru’s gaze on him isn’t heavy. It’s deep, yes, and multi-layered. Makoto touches his glasses self-consciously. Haru blinks.

Haru's reaction to his siblings makes Makoto laugh. He wonders if it'll be indelicate of him to ask Haru about his family. He seems like an only child, the way he listens to the stories of his sibling's antics with amused attention, a little wistfully.

He asks Haru for his phone number. Haru takes out his phone, a tiny dolphin charm hanging from it. Makoto flicks it with his finger, reciting his number.

“Hey, I don’t have a photo for your contact,” Makoto says after Haru gives him a call. There is a blank grey square next to Haru’s name. He squarely repels Makoto’s requests of taking a photo of him.

“Haru, please! Why won’t you- okay, how about taking one together?”

In the end it’s him and Haru, leaning against the sun speckled tree trunk, Haru acquiescing to looking at the camera with his Ren-like pout. It’s good enough.

* * *

Within four months, Makoto has made considerable friends. Well, when he says friends, its people to hang out with. He’s polite, amiable, and has a problem saying no; he finds himself at parties as a friend of a friend; group studies lead to evenings spent in cafes, trying to avoid drinking without anyone noticing. Not that he minds, it’s just like it was at home. He has always had someone to hang out with, a cluster of people ready to invite him over. He joins a volunteering society and the university magazine committee. They keep him occupied and the people he meets there are good company.

He meets Haru in the two classes they share, and the lunch they share. It’s easier to be with Haru, Makoto notices. It is like stepping in a tree-house you had as a kid, or a clearing in a groove of trees, a secret hiding place.

* * *

“There’s this party thing,” Haru begins, “someone from our history class is throwing.”

“Yeah, Kasukabe-kun told me. Are you planning on going, Haru?”

Makoto looks up from the scatter of books spread on the table. Haru had found him doing research for his creative writing homework. He hadn’t said anything, only pulled out a chair, dropped his bag on the side.

“I’m… yeah, yeah probably. Are you?”

Makoto straightens, tapping his pencil on his notebook. He wasn’t planning on going really.

“Live a little, Tachibana,” Haru says after the following beat of silence. It is something so unlike Haru to say that Makoto barely contains a laugh.

“It’s after-effects from talking to a friend I have,” Haru mutters testily.

Still chuckling, Makoto agrees. “Okay, I’ll go. It’s this weekend, right? That’s actually really good timing. I can take Asami there.”

Happy with the idea, Makoto sends a text to her. She had said she could visit him this month; her first visit. A party would be a fun thing to take her to, a little different from their usual date preferences.

“Who?”

Makoto presses send, puts the phone to the side, waiting for her reply. “What?”

What would she be doing right now? How much homework did he have? Better finish it before the weekend.

“Who’s… Asami?”

“Oh, haven’t I told you about her? She’s my girlfriend. We haven’t met since I came here and she’s visiting for the first time.”

Haru nods, a little wide-eyed.

“Wait, I have photos!”

Haru pushes the chair away with a loud clatter, grabbing his bag. “I uhh… I have to go. Just remembered something I have to do.”

“Oh, okay,” Makoto replies, crestfallen. Haru is usually very interested in looking at his photos. “I’ll see you later.”

* * *

Haru keeps remembering something he has to do whenever Makoto walks over to him during the remainder of the week. He diligently takes notes in the classes. At their lunch time, Haru awkwardly hands over Makoto’s lunch before taking off.

“Today, too?” Makoto asks.

Haru presses his art guides and sketchbook to his chest. “Yeah, today, too.”

* * *

Makoto is glad it isn’t a big party. It’s in Kasukabe’s spacious backyard; lanterns thrown haphazardly over the fence and bushes, a small fire set in the centre, and music just loud enough to glaze the chatter.

Makoto and Asami watch the fire crackle and spark from their perch on the deck, Makoto alternating between watching the sparks flying off the fire and the glowing halo of Asami’s profile.

“I missed you,” Asami whispers into his shoulder, punctuating the sentiment with a kiss. Makoto hears someone whoop and gets a clap on his back.

“I didn't know you were taken, Tachibana!”

Makoto doesn’t look up to see who had said that.

Asami draws away. “Which reminds me, I met the little Tachibanas. They’re not handling this well, are they?”

Makoto groans. “Whenever we video chat, 50% of it is them trying not to cry and the other 50% is me trying not to cry! I’ve told them to not make things difficult for mom and dad.”

“They’re kids. They just need a little more time to adjust, that’s all.”

Makoto hopes so. When Asami goes to get a beer, he checks his phone again. Nothing from Haru. Makoto had texted him before he left, just to let him know he’ll be there. Makoto is beginning to think it is because he had been relying on him too much; maybe Haru is tired of him.

“This one doesn't taste so bad.” Asami hands him her beer. Makoto dubiously takes a sip and hands it right back, grimacing a little. “Nope. Still bad.”

“Cute,” she chuckles. “Your friend still not here?”

“No… I just really wanted you two to meet. He was the one who persuaded me to come. And I told him you were coming here. But then he got busy and I didn't see him all week…” Makoto trails off, dejected. He thinks about calling him. Just to make sure.

“I'm sure he has a good reason for standing you up,” Asami teases, pulling on his arm. “Come on, dance with me.”

She puts down the bottle and he pulls her close. Smelling flowers in her hair, feeling the smoothness of her arms. Behind them the afternoon sky dissolves into the evening. The lanterns glow brighter.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you angry with me, Haru?"

Makoto stands in front of Haru, tentative, fighting the familiar sickening feeling of tears gathering in his throat.

"Did I do something wrong?" His voice stumbles somewhere in there and Makoto feels like sinking into the ground. The tears move up to behind his eyes, and his nose. If he isn’t careful the lens of his glasses will get wet and become blurry. He resists the urge to sniffle.

"If it’s about the lunch thing... You don't have to do that... It was just... You're an amazing cook."

Makoto's stomach is churning between running to safety and possibly throwing up and being rooted to the spot two feet away from Haru's sneakers, determined to be told why Haru hasn't said a word to him in almost a month.

"I thought we were... Becoming friends or something," he tells Haru's teal sneakers," I liked-like spending time with you."

He takes a deep breath, pushes himself to look up. Haru looks horrified, flinching away with his whole= body as if Makoto had struck him. His face is flushed, his eyes glossy. It makes Makoto suck in a breath with shock.

"Haru, I'm sorry-"

"Stop!" Haru cries in a stricken, splintered half-whisper, "Stop talking!"

Haru stumbles once as he runs away.

* * *

 Next morning, he finds Haru near his history class, apparently waiting for him. There is a moment where Makoto can feel Haru decide on running away again.

"Come with me," he says in a rush.

Makoto follows him to a disused shed behind the astronomy department.  Haru kneels by a cluster of white flowering weeds and makes soft kissing sounds. A grey cat saunters lazily out of a hole in the back wall, moves towards Haru's outstretched hand, eyeing Makoto mistrustfully.

"This is my secret cat."

He catches Haru's wary gaze, apologetic in tone.

"Her name is Mackerel. She also likes eating mackerel."

"Like you," Makoto says, grinning. Haru replies with a little, shy smile of his own.  

* * *

On Thursday and Friday, Makoto works at the university magazine. For now, it’s mostly research for others and running the social media for the magazine but he’s slowly working towards getting his own byline or have one of his stories printed. He can’t bring himself to submit anything to the editor, feeling silly and anxious. He likes to write about lost animals, tiny worlds and new discoveries in old places; it gets difficult for him to move out of those. His writing teacher has told him to incorporate larger themes into his stories.

“It’s okay to want to write for kids, but kids don’t just want a cute rabbit,” she had said.

Now, watching Haru switch between two green colour pencils, he asks, “What did you read as a kid, Haru?”

“Lots of things,” he replies, “and don’t move.”

 _Move what?_ Makoto is laying down, looking up and through the winter tree branches. It’s chilly outside but Haru had to do some nature studies.

“Okay, so what did you like to read? Magic, pirates, dragons… ”

“Horror, I liked horror.”

Makoto jerks up on his elbows. “You what?”

“Makoto, stop moving,” Haru warns in exasperation.

“Wait, are you drawing me?” Makoto grins. “Can I see?”

He knows better than to ask, Haru never shows him anything. He lays back down in the grass and tries to catch one of Haru’s studious glances. “Come on, I am your best friend, Haru.”

They haven’t used that phrase yet, although now it is fairly obvious. Slowly but surely, Makoto’s orbit of friends has shrunk. He didn’t notice it until his other friends- because now it’s Haru and then _other friends_ \- said he barely hung out with them anymore. It’s easier with Haru, Makoto thinks. Not that Haru is needy. He’s perfectly capable and mature from living on his own for so long. More so than Makoto and it never ceases to amaze him. It’s that Haru- Makoto tries not to think like that- treats him as an exception. He hasn’t seen Haru hang out with anyone else. Whom did he have before Makoto came here?

“Haru, do you have a girlfriend?” he asks.

Haru doesn’t lift his eyes from his sketchbook but his pencil pauses. “No.”

Boyfriend? He wants to ask but doesn’t, blushing even thinking about it. Makoto has been developing his Haru dictionary: things that Haru does and says and what they really mean. The pause is something. But he doesn’t press for details. Haru gets a lot of attention from girls in their class. He’s even been asked to pass Haru messages which when Makoto does, are quietly ignored by Haru. Haru is layered and resists overt attention. He still waits the extra second for Makoto to nod and smile before sitting next to him, which Makoto finds a bit too formal but charming nonetheless. Makoto doesn’t think anyone else is treated that way by him. It’s difficult to not feel he’s the exception in Haru’s life. Haru is sometimes very oblivious too. 

* * *

There’s a night when Haru calls him somewhere around two at night, out of breath and panicked. When Makoto picks up, Haru doesn’t say anything but he can hear him breathing sharply.

“Haru, are you hurt?!”

“No. I just had a… bad dream… are you still here? Are you-”

Another entry in the dictionary: nightmares.

“- real?”

 _Here?_ “I’m here, Haru. It’s okay. Try going back to sleep.”

There’s a long pause in which he notices Haru’s breathing even out. “I can stay on the phone if you want. Until you sleep.” Makoto feels strange offering that. It’s something Asami likes him to do on the nights she cannot sleep.

“No…no, I’ll be fine. Sorry for waking you up.”

With that, Haru disconnects. Makoto falls back down on his bed, thinking what Haru’s nightmares could be and the fact that he had called him after having one.

* * *

Visiting Makoto in Tokyo doesn’t turn out to be as simple as it seemed when Asami had first visited. In the months after, she tries to visit again but they cannot get their schedules to match. At least they still get to call and video chat. He misses hanging out with her.

“I miss you too, Makoto” she says quietly over the phone, and after a pause, “I miss feeling you.”

“I miss you touching me. Do you think of me, Makoto?”

He tries, he’s surprised to see he has to try. Try to think of her when he’s masturbating. It feels long ago when he was going to break up with her. Even back then, he found himself trying and not doing. They would kiss and make out; he liked her silky, warm skin, her peach tasting lips. But when he was alone, he had to try and think about her hair, her eyes, her legs. He had chalked it up to the constant guilt of touching himself in his home (with his siblings asleep not far from his room). But here, though he still isn’t used to the freedom and permission to make noise, he doesn’t know why he has to try.

What is the right answer to that question? For a while, Makoto is afraid to answer her calls. What if she asks him again? What if she wants to try phone sex or whatever it is called when it isn’t sex? Makoto’s ears turn red imagining it.  

* * *

The first time Makoto sees Haru swim, he thinks the sea monster has dragged him down. Haru had been lazily floating in the pool when he suddenly jumped out to walk towards the diving board. He sees Haru dive in and not come out. Minutes pass and in his mind he knows Haru can swim. People can swim and hold their breath under water. He looks at his watch but he cannot remember how long it has been. Makoto shouts Haru’s name and hears it echo around the large empty pool. Did he really shout or was it just in his mind? The water has an eerie glow, Makoto cannot figure out how deep it is. Maybe it isn’t too deep and Haru is at the bottom, not far from Makoto’s reach, waiting for his help. Or maybe it is, with the monster waiting for Makoto to step closer. He should go in before it smothers Haru to death but he cannot make himself take a step. He cannot walk. He’s stuck to the wall, gasping in horror, tasting vomit at the back of his throat.

Just then, Haru levers himself out, unhurt, whole-limbed. Makoto keeps glancing at the pool as Haru walks cautiously towards him, expecting the monster to reach out for him again. Haru’s wet hands seep through Makoto’s sleeves. He feels lightheaded, his skin clammy and ears ringing. Haru’s voice reaches him in broken static, asking if he’s okay.

“Haru, you… you didn’t come out. I waited and you weren’t-”

“Makoto, what are you saying? I can swim. You know that… right?”

Haru doesn’t understand. Sometimes people don’t come out of pools, seas, oceans unhurt, same as they entered. And some of them can’t see the monster.

“Makoto, what happened?” Haru touches his face “You’re shaking and pale.”

Makoto looks at him once and shoves him aside to dry heave on the tiled floor, his glasses falling with a clutter.

“We’re going to the nurse.” He hears Haru say shakily. Makoto catches him by his fingers. He spits excess saliva and pushes himself upright, holding onto Haru’s fingers.

“Its’s okay-“

“This is anything but okay!”

“Just give me a minute. My head’s dizzy.”

* * *

Haru takes him to his room, vehemently insisting on Makoto staying with him for the night.

“It’s just a stupid nightmare I get, Haru, I swear,” Makoto tries to debate.

“Nightmares aren’t stupid,” Haru replies and that is the end of the argument. He pushes Makoto into the small bathroom with a towel and a pair of trousers. “Shower. Sorry I don’t have a shirt your size.”

Makoto slides down to the floor as the door closes. His legs wouldn’t stop trembling. He rubs them slowly, feeling like a child. Back to when he had seen the ocean swallow a friend and spit him out again different; to when he couldn’t go to the beach anymore on holidays; to when he had tearfully asked his parents to not let his siblings join the neighborhood swim school because he was afraid they’d get hurt by the monster in the pool (it could be in the pool). Ren and Ran had sulked and argued for a week. Their parents hadn’t told them it was because of Makoto, they just made an excuse, saying they’ll think about it again next year.

Haru’s towel hangs from a rail next to him: light blue, slightly damp, smelling like…

“You’re fine,” Makoto tells himself in Haru’s mirror. “You’re better now. It just caught you off guard. Stop freaking Haru out.”

Haru’s toothbrush is shaped like a dolphin. Makoto smiles and runs the shower.

* * *

He keeps the towel on his shoulders in lieu of a shirt. Haru serves him dinner and after they’re done eating he says, “Tell me.” He gets nightmares too, Makoto remembers.

Haru listens quietly and doesn’t ask questions. In the end he drags a box out from under his bed, overturns it into a small cascade of colorful ribbons and shiny medals. Makoto sifts through them. Haru’s swimming awards through the years: 1st positions, fastest, best…

“I’m not going to drown, Makoto,” he states firmly. “I’m good. I’m not going to drown.”

Makoto nods dumbly, running one of the medals between his fingers. Makoto would have liked to see that race. He understands what Haru is trying to do. But irrational fears don’t follow logic and facts and swimming trophies. Two summers later, his twin siblings had gotten into the swimming school. At that time, Makoto was doing better, the nightmares were less frequent and he could even go see their events and competitions. He had asked their coach if they were “drown-proof” now, seeing them slip across the pool like brightly coloured fish.

“No one is ever an exception when it comes to drowning, no matter how well they swim,” she had said slowly and earnestly, seemingly expecting the question. Makoto had wondered how many times she had to remind parents about their children’s mortality. He would slip into Ren and Ran’s room after a nightmare, watch them sleep (unhurt, whole-limbed) or dozing off by their bedside.

“Thanks, Haru. It was just…well, you know. I’m a bit embarrassed.” Makoto laughs weakly, rubs a hand over his face, through his hair. “I’m tired now.”

Haru nods. “You can rest. I have a couple of things to do.”

* * *

When Makoto comes to a while later, Haru is closing his notebooks, switching off his desk lamp. He perhaps senses Makoto move and turns.

“Don’t get up.”

“I’ll help you take out the futon.” Makoto swings his legs over. Haru’s trousers end a few inches above his ankles. He sees Haru’s feet walk towards him and stop inches from his own. He looks up.

“I’m okay with it… if it helps… I don’t mind.”

Makoto has to look away because he knows that look now. From his Haru dictionary, this is how Haru looks when he wants to do or say something and doesn’t know how but he tries anyway.

“No, Haru, I’m fine really-”

 “Makoto, listen…”

His skin begins to feel warm, his limbs long and awkward. He isn’t a child anymore, when it was okay to sneak into his parent’s bed when he was afraid. And Haru isn’t one of his little siblings. Why would Haru offer that to him? He’s supposed to feel strange and panicked. But he doesn’t. Haru isn’t strange or weird, he’s true and straightforward about who he is and what he says.

“…it’s okay with me,” Haru repeats.

Makoto nods.

“We’ll still need futons. I don’t think we can fit on the bed.”

Now Makoto blushes. As they set the two futons and lay down, Makoto tries to make himself smaller and leaner. Haru is on his side, facing away.

“I have glow-in-the-dark stars in my room,” he informs Haru.

There is a pause in which he thinks Haru’s asleep. “I’d like to see that.”

Makoto turns his head to smile at Haru’s back then looks back up, trying not to figure out what Haru’s hair- like his towel from before- smell like.

* * *

Makoto finally getting his big break with the turn of the season, an article to write in the university magazine. He might be dramatizing it a little but no, it is definitely a big break. He’s called his parents, left a text for Asami and is now looking for Haru.

The library isn’t the place Makoto wanted Haru to be since delivering the news requires a loud volume and excessive hand gestures. Haru eyes Makoto warily as he fidgets in his seat across the table from him with uncontainable joy.

“Haru!” he whispers.

“Yes?”

“Haru!”

“What?”

“I got it! I got my first article!” Makoto announces in a barely restrained whisper, grinning widely. He waits for the enthusiastic response but Haru only nods and says, “That’s great. Congratulations. What is it about?”

Makoto deflates, reminding himself that he should not have expected anything different. Haru wasn’t exactly going to do a celebratory dance. “Umm… it isn’t very exciting actually. Some old event that happened in the university or something like that.”

He grabs a pile of books from Haru’s side and crosses his arms over them, resting his head. Maybe he is making a big deal out of it. He checks his phone, sighing. Asami hasn’t texted him back yet. He feels Haru poke him with a pen and looks over. Haru is mirroring his pose, his eyes peeking from above his arms.

“Stop sulking. Do you want to go out and celebrate?” He whispers the invitation, glancing away.

Makoto smiles, balancing his chin on his hands. “I’d like that.”

The top of Haru’s head bobs in agreement. Makoto smiles again. “Thanks, Haru.”

“Shut up.”

Haru’s eyes dive behind his arms too. That only makes Makoto chuckle. “But we can’t have any mackerel. Since it is my party, I get to pick the food.”

Haru huffs and looks back up to glare at him, the effect somewhat reduced since Makoto can hardly see it. He reaches across and brushes Haru’s hair away from his forehead.

“You have to get them trimmed… can’t see your eyes properly sometimes.”


	4. Chapter 4

When Makoto and Haru are together, it’s an alternate reality. It’s a place where the meaning of things shifts and blurs. Sometimes there is no meaning at all. This isn’t the real world, Makoto thinks, staring at Haru’s hands in class. Haru uses those hands to nudge Makoto’s face at an angle so the light falls on him in just the right way.

“Don’t move,” Haru whispers, picking up his charcoal pencil.

His hands lay inches away from Makoto whenever he sleeps over and they share a bed. What would that mean in the real world? Staying awake at odd hours sharing stories and childhood tales, falling asleep to the other’s voice.

Haru’s hands touch him naturally and without intent. And he touches Haru back easily too: holding Haru’s fingers as he guides a spoon of broth towards Makoto for a taste test, a light touch on his shoulder before leaving, sitting closer because he appreciates the warmth, the glances that don’t steal away when caught, glances that feel like a touch. Makoto is okay with it. He even gets away with a hug now and then. Makoto rarely senses Haru’s arms around him in reciprocation but Haru doesn’t push him away either. He has always been tactile in his expressions but he hadn’t realized how much. Then again, he hasn’t been away from his little siblings this long, and they were usually attached to him like two extra limbs.

When Haru drinks a little too much and he angles Makoto again - “Don’t move,” he says and Makoto doesn’t - then Haru’s ‘something or nothing’ touches trace his jaw, his neck, smoothing over his shoulders. If Makoto is still wearing his glasses by then, he’d be able to track Haru’s expressions. He doesn’t usually move but sometimes when Haru has made Makoto look away, he’ll turn to face Haru as he sketches. So he can watch Haru focus on him, stare at him, his mouth, his throat. Haru is beautiful, there is no denying or unseeing that.

When it washes over their university life or when they’re out in the real world, there are stares, amused laughter, and teasing.

“It’s not like that!” Makoto always cries out, defensively and in embarrassment. But Haru remains indifferent to the insinuations.

“You don’t have to explain it to them every time,” Haru advises him. Makoto admires Haru’s wisdom. He also wonders if this has happened to Haru before.

“Does it bother you that much?” Haru asks him firmly with a little exasperation.

Makoto would really like to say no, it doesn’t. But in reality he has thought worriedly if this counts as cheating. He looks at the X’s and O’s in Asami’s texts with nagging guilt. It’s not like that, Makoto explains to his mental image of Asami. _But_ _I like it_ , he tells her, _I like that I can sit close to him when we’re watching a movie and it doesn’t freak him out_.

“I haven’t felt homesick in a while,” he tells his mother, “Not that I don’t miss home. I do, a lot. It just doesn’t make me sad anymore.”

“Well, that’s great news!” She claps her hands through the laptop screen. He can see the window behind her and the view of his street. Perhaps he spoke too soon.  

“Thank Haru for me. For taking care of our son.”

* * *

Haru often talks in photographs. Makoto finds that utterly charming. He’ll text Haru to ask what he is doing and the answer will be an open textbook with a stack of sticky notes or Haru’s hand cut off from the frame holding a ladle with a pot boiling on a stove. Once when Makoto had excitedly sent him a torrent of texts particularly early in the morning, he had received a photo of half of Haru’s cross and sleep disheveled face.

Then there are non-conversational photos: of people and places; photos of Nunu, their cat; puddles, clouds and such things in which Makoto assume Haru sees a face or some animal. More often than not, Makoto cannot find what Haru saw but he replies with a smiling emoticon anyway. It all files under a separate folder . He tries sending photos to Haru in return, his chest bubbling with warm affection, but he cannot seem to capture what he sees. He ends up sending photos of cats, because cats are incapable of looking anything but utterly adorable.

* * *

 

Makoto’s forgotten a lot of people. In his phone, there are faceless names and numbers. A year ago it would have perturbed him. These are people he had crossed lives and shared memories with; now, interchangeable and indistinguishable.

He supposes it is a part of growing up, this shedding of half-remembered people. He couldn’t be friends with everybody anymore like he used to when he was in school - he remembers a basket full of candies for his classmates on the first day back to school after vacations and handmade birthday party invitations. The guest list had kept getting shorter each year. While that feels sad to him, it is also liberating.

geniality, Makoto tries to think of any previous friendships as meaningful and strong as his and Haru’s and there are none. At least none after he left high school. He’s in awe of the intimacy and sharing with Haru, verging on telepathy. In a way it’s addictive. The sense that Haru _chose_ him. Out of all others, out of everyone. Haru looks at him across the hallway as he walks over, Makoto smiles and just knows. It has also balanced the knowing feeling in Makoto’s mind; the way Haru seems to know him a bit too well and a little too deeply.

* * *

 

He’s found a painting of him in the arts department’s storage room. The boy looks like him but with shorter hair and wider shoulders. He’s standing on a beach, laughing, with an arm outstretched, calling Makoto inside to the windy, sandy shore.

_Maybe it’s after I met him_. _Maybe it’s a secret project. He doesn’t show me all of his works anyway._

He’s made his way to the studio, researching for his article on the arts exhibition that took place a year before he transferred. The date next to the photograph of Haru in the pamphlet, standing awkwardly and solemnly in a white button down shirt, in front of a background of flying birds, is a year and a half old too. Makoto wants to touch the boy’s fingers but he’s afraid. He looks back at the photo. The paper cranes aren’t here anymore.

He wants to ask Haru if this a prank but what comes out is another question.

“I wasn’t even here, Haru. We had never met before when I got here. Had we?”

Because on some absurd level, it makes sense. It explains that knowing feeling. There is a dull ringing in his ears, making him think the words loudly in his head. Haru’s standing motionless and breathless in his room, eyes wide in shock. He opens his mouth to say something and Makoto prepares in anticipation. But Haru only slumps as a wordless answer. His shoulders sink, his spine curves and his hips hit the desk as he perches on the edge.

“Haru, did you know me?”

Makoto’s starting to panic. This silence is not one in which he just knows what Haru is thinking. Though he can tell Haru wants him to take the question back.

“Haru,” he says again. It hadn’t been a mirror but a window. A window to another him, not afraid of the ocean, seeming larger than the Makoto that stood before him.

Haru looks up smiling weakly, his face pale and drawn. “I knew. I’ve always known you.”

* * *

 

Makoto looks over his hands, his arms and legs, looking for a sign, birthmarks or something that could offer an explanation. There’s nothing but goosebumps, running and shivering over his skin. The paper cranes had perplexed him until Haru had told him in a whisper how many there were.

“Haru, listen to what you’re saying.” What is he exactly looking for on his skin? How does one prove they’re real? “I have a family. My mom and dad, my siblings. You’ve seen the photos!”

People didn’t drop from the sky. People don’t materialize out of thin air, made of oil paint and paper.

He isn’t sure if Haru has moved. He must be uncomfortable. The colors in the window behind him have deepened into sunset. Makoto has to go, has to move. He has things to do tomorrow. Haru is looking at him as if he’s trapped, his body tensed for flight.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

* * *

 

Another sunset framing Haru. This time Makoto faces him with a notebook in his hands. Haru looks equally as afraid as him, following Makoto’s nervous movements. He opens the notebook.

 “What’s my…” he swallows, breathes, and continues. “What’s my favorite color?”

Haru’s gaze wilts. He looks up, away and back again. “Makoto, don’t -”

 “Haru, please.”

“Orange,” Haru replies in a strained voice, “You like orange.”

Makoto nods, his heart beating like a jackhammer. “That was a bit easy. I would have told you that already.” Noticing his fingers tremble, Makoto grabs the notebook tighter. “When is my birthday? No, wait. I’ve probably told you that too.”

“Makoto, please listen to me -”

He glances anxiously at Haru and tries another question, something Haru wouldn’t know about or wouldn’t have seen him do.

“What’s my favorite ice cream to have in summer?”

Haru doesn’t answer at first and looks back at him sadly. 

“You don’t… you don’t like ice cream. You prefer popsicles. The blue ones.”

_Shitshitshitfuckshit_. Another.

“What did I want to be when I was a kid?”

“Makoto, stop -”

“What did I -”

“A fireman. You wanted to rescue cats more than put out fires. Makoto, please don’t do this.”

“I could have told you all that.”

He frantically flips overs a few pages. Those talks at sleepovers, those never-ending talks softened with sleep and eager, intimate curiosity. Makoto could have told him the answer to every question written here in his notebook. He had probably spilled his guts out to .

“Makoto, I don’t know -” Haru begins to speak but Makoto abruptly cuts in, his tone rising in hysteria.

“Did you become friends with me because I look like him?”

That shocks Haru into stillness. The question had been growing louder and louder in Makoto’s mind ever since he saw the painting. Everything feels corrupted and tainted. It’s starting to feel like the beginning of his nightmares, the slow but sharp sensation of his mind retching up dark memories, putting a distorted lens over his eyes.

“There is no him!” Haru exclaims in a panicked voice, stepping closer. “There’s only you! Just you.”

Haru grips Makoto by his arms, looking at him plaintively. Makoto notices Haru’s eyes are glossy and wet. He’s sure his are too. The back of his throat burns. A silent moment stretches out while Makoto’s mind is overwhelmed with disorienting static.

“Haru, I’m scared. Do you know… do you know what you’re saying?”

Haru lets go of him and utters a strangled cry, running a hand over his face in frustration. Makoto, afflicted, sees his wet fingers and wet cheeks.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Makoto, please! I don’t know what happened or how. You were gone and then you came back after I made -”

“Haru, there is no back!” Makoto pleads.

“There is for me! I remember a whole childhood. A childhood with you. I have so many memories of us. Together. You were here, in this room...” Haru pauses and looks away, losing the will to speak. He draws a shaky breath. “We were in this bed when you… when you went away.”

“I’m not… god, I’m not lying to you, Makoto.”

They both stop and fall silent, unable to convince the other.

* * *

 

He should just look at Haru, tell him he’s crazy and run. Except Haru isn’t crazy and Makoto cannot walk away, not when there are a thousand paper cranes for him to carry. Haru has a fearful look that he’s just waiting for Makoto to leave. Ignoring Haru would be cruel and he doesn’t want to hurt him.

“Aren’t you going to ask me anything?” Haru speaks tentatively.

They’re lying on the roof of the astronomy club room in the late evening. Makoto thinks about why Haru would be in this club. He’s never actually heard Haru talk about astronomy at all.

_How much of him do you see in me? How much of what we have is because of what you two had?_

Haru’s arms are spread wide and he’s looking up at the newly appearing stars. Makoto wonders if Haru wishes he were floating in a pool right now. 

“No, Haru. I’m not.”

It isn’t that they spend less time together now, but they _feel_ less together and out of sync. Makoto mostly tries to ignore Haru’s side glances and forget this incident ever happened. He doesn’t want Haru to read him and be upset. He hasn’t been to Haru’s place in a while. Haru looks tired and resigned. Makoto aches. _Forget, forget._

Their examinations are near and preparation for them provides a comfortable buffer. Free hours usually spent together are now devoted to studying. They meet in the hallway and diverge into separate sections in the library. In Haru’s arms are photocopied notes in Makoto’s handwriting.

Haru tells Makoto one day after lunch he’s going to be with his parents for a while, probably right until the examinations begin. Makoto wishes him a happy journey.

* * *

 

the summer after Makoto had turned 17. And everyone had changed. There were suddenly talks about universities, careers and relationships. People were moving out, moving away. But Katsuo had changed the most. He had a girlfriend now. A girl named Suzume, with dark, silky hair dyed a startling magenta at the ends. Like she had dipped her ponytails in glossy paint.

 “What the fuck, Tachibana! Don’t touch me like that! I’m not gay!”

Makoto had snapped his hand away from Katsuo’s lower back as if it had been stung. They had been passing through a door and Makoto had stepped aside to let Katsuo pass first. He had looked at Katsuo’s scowling face in dumb shock and retreated a step back.

“What? I didn’t... I mean, sorry.”

Makoto’s hand had felt odd and seemed heavier than usual throughout the day.

Katsuo didn’t want sleepovers anymore. Because he had a girlfriend now.

“Shit, we’re not kids anymore, Mako.”

Their text conversations slowed down to a trickle. They rarely saw each other outside of school. When Makoto told him he missed him, Katsuo had shrugged.

“I have a girlfriend now.”

It confused him. What did it have to do with Suzume? He had met her before and she seemed nice. He couldn’t understand why she would not want them to hang out, assuming that was the problem.

When the exam scores had been displayed and he had seen his scores, looked for Katsuo’s and seen his -they had both passed - Makoto had looked around for Katsuo and saw him pumping his fists in the air. Katsuo had been worried he wouldn’t be able to raise his percentage but he had.

“You did it! Congratulations!” Makoto cheered and hugged him. He heard a surprised yelp in his ear and was abruptly pushed back.

“The fuck are you doing!” Katsuo shouted. The hallway paused and looked at them. “I’m not your boyfriend!” Someone giggled.

Katsuo had later found him crying in the empty gym locker room, his hiccupping breath echoed across the walls, the sound of them made Makoto cringe.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? Here, take this. Stop crying.”

Katsuo had handed him a packet of tissues and told him no one cried at 17.

“Shit, I shouldn’t have said that, Mako. I’m sorry. It’s just… you act like a kid sometimes. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“We can’t hang out together all the time now,” Katsuo had explained, rubbing his nape like he did when he felt awkward. “And no more weird hugging. I mean, that’s weird, right? I have a -”

“Girlfriend now. Yeah, I know,” Makoto had finished for him. Why did everything end up there?

“You should get a girlfriend too. You’re already popular. I bet girls would line up.” He had nudged Makoto meaningfully. “I bet you haven’t even kissed anyone yet!”

Makoto had blushed and Katsuo laughed. Before they walked out the locker room to go home, Katsuo had looked like he was going to let Makoto hug him goodbye. But Makoto had smiled and waved instead.

* * *

 

The day Asami had hesitantly kissed him for the first time, Makoto had sighed in relief. It wasn’t at all like he had always pictured his first kiss would be: him being clumsy, laughable in his inexperience, apologizing profusely. Asami led and he followed.

* * *

 

Makoto wonders if they were in love, Haru and the boy in the painting. He goes back to the arts department’s storage room and finds the boxes with the paper cranes. He takes out a few, lays them out before him. Some have crumpled wings. He straightens them absently, calculating how many days it would have taken Haru to make the birds.

Haru makes him feel something too. It’s love, absolutely. Who wouldn’t - couldn’t - love Haruka? Sometimes it’s the love he has for Ren and Ran. Other times, if he imagines, it’s almost enough to be mistaken for Asami’s love. While it may be too complex and vague for him to define, he can certainly say Haru makes him notice. There are compartments in his mind with Haru’s name on it, filled with Haru’s things and these nebulous but earnest feelings. He doesn’t dig deeper for meaning. All this introspection is already hurting his head and he wants desperately to phase out for a while.

Makoto’s mouth curls in a bitter scowl. Why did the boy leave Haru? Left him scarred, lonely and still hopeful, making paper cranes out of wishes. How dare he? Now Haru is afraid Makoto could leave him too. Makoto gets up, dusts his knees. _What kind of love is that?_ He doesn’t want to look at the painting anymore. He takes a blue paper crane before boxing up the rest.

“Whoever you are,” Makoto tells the grinning boy on the beach, “You sure fucked him up.”

* * *

 

Makoto looks dispassionately at his article in a copy of the university newsletter, lying on his desk in the journalism room. If he could go back, would he stop himself from taking this assignment? He hasn’t included a reproduction of Haru’s painting but he has mentioned him. Haru had received one of the highest grades. Makoto isn’t surprised.

He catches glimpses of Haru throughout the examination weeks and they exchange quick pleasantries when they can. It’s only because they’re busy, Makoto reassures himself. He’s confident he’s done extremely well on his writing courses. He remembers the doom and anxiety of Mathematics and English in high school and thanks his lucky stars for not needing those subjects anymore.

* * *

 

In his nightmares, he drowns over and over again. His lifeless body washes up on the shore with countless wet, soaking paper cranes surrounding it. Makoto wakes up with salt stinging his eyes and coating his throat, whimpering in misery. For the first few times, he has Haru’s number glowing on the screen before he stops himself calling him. Heart thumping against his ill-fitting skin, clammy with sweat, he fixes his eyes at the glow-in-the-dark stars above him, willing himself to calm down.

In an instance of paranoia, he moves Haru’s paper crane from his desk to a box and buries it in the back of his wardrobe, piling his winter clothes over it. He’s furious at himself too, for acting like his self a decade ago, back when his mother had to come sleep beside him. But she’s far away now and he’s supposed to have grown up.

But the next time his dream-self drowns, he calls Haru, who answers after the second ring in an alarmed voice.

“I keep seeing I’m dead,” he tells Haru, close to tears.

It’s two in the morning but Haru’s at his door. Makoto realizes he hadn’t even known when Haru had come back to the dorm. He had assumed he would be spending the post-exam holidays living with his parents.

Makoto’s room is smaller; they can’t fit two futons on the floor. Makoto sleeps on his bed and Haru on the floor, which defeats the purpose of calling him over. No use if he isn’t next to him. He’s too exhausted to care if this is the real world or their alternate reality when he tugs at Haru’s arm and his body follows upwards to the bed. Makoto anchors himself with fingers wrapped in the hem of Haru’s t-shirt.

“How do you know I didn’t die?” he asks Haru drowsily. _I, him?_ Sleeps comes easily now with Haru’s weight next to him and his warmth. He wants to see Haru’s expressions but his eyelids are growing heavier.

Haru sighs, reaches over and turns Makoto towards himself. They shift. Makoto burrows his forehead under Haru’s chin, his right arm spanning the width of Haru’s back, enveloping his lean frame. Then there are fingers in his hair and a scent of sea-salts and dark moss. Makoto yawns noisily against Haru’s chest. Haru’s t-shirt is soft against his skin. He imagines Haru floating and drifting lazily over waters, propelling himself smoothly with light movements of his arms. Haru isn’t afraid. He undulates gently with the waves, looking up at the sky, appreciating the varying hues of blue above and below him. it’s calm and there’s light. Makoto feels safe enough to close his eyes.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Makoto wakes to the warmth of Haru’s chest, his fingers in Makoto’s hair. He lays there remembering his nightmare. He does not tell Haru what it was about.

“I’m not him, Haru,” Makoto says finally. Looking up at him, he notices the swollen crescents under Haru’s eyes. Makoto’s stomach lurches, as it always did seeing Haru sad or in pain.

“I am afraid of the ocean. I can’t swim.”

Haru nods, and then adds, “He didn’t have glasses either.”

“I can tell he was- _is_ precious to you,” Makoto continues slowly, weighing the words carefully. “Someone special. But Haru, if what you’re telling me did happen, then that would mean I’m… that I’m nothing. That my identity isn’t mine.”

“It would also mean that what we have…” He cannot look at Haru as he says this so he directs his gaze at the underside of Haru’s chin. “… it isn’t genuine. That you feel the way you do about me because of him.” Haltingly, he adds, “Is it?”

He sees Haru’s throat move as he swallows. A warm exhale wisps past his hair. “Whatever happened, that doesn’t mean I… care for you any less. But I can’t forget about him either.”

“Do you… hate me now?” Haru asks quietly.

Whatever sleep-softness was remaining in Makoto is jerked out of him. “No. No, Haru. Never.” He catches Haru’s eye firmly with his own, hoping his words carry more emphasis. “Why… why would you think I could hate you?”

Haru shrugs and glances at him dispiritedly as if to say, why wouldn’t he? Makoto rubs circles on Haru’s back, itching to comfort him. “Don’t be like that, Haru. I don’t want you to feel sad because of me.”

Haru takes a deep breath, lets go of Makoto and lies on his back, looking at the dim stars on the ceiling. Makoto watches him from the side, feeling Haru even out his breathing.

“Did you… did you like the painting?”

Makoto smiles widely. Here he can at least say something to make Haru happy. “Yes. Yes, I did. Tell me how you made it.”

Haru talks all the while he makes their breakfast.

* * *

Makoto invites Haru to come along with him to visit his family. Haru spares him an uncertain glance.

“I’ve told them all about you, you know.” Still no answer.

“They think you’re some sort of superhero.”

Haru gives a short, surprised laugh. He looks slightly embarrassed but Makoto continues, grinning mischievously.

“You flew in and saved their precious son from being eaten up and corrupted by the big, mean city.”

Haru is still smiling. Makoto knows it’s a yes. He begins to mentally plan the itinerary.

* * *

If being an adult means not getting choked up at the sight of your town getting closer through the train’s windows, then Makoto supposes he still has a long way to go. Though he feels taller than the streets he used to walk in, and the town itself seems smaller, his heart feels tender as he makes his way home. He points out significant areas to Haru, places bound with his memories, as if he had been away for years.

His family is waiting on the doorstep, cheery eyed, and in the case of his twin siblings, teary eyed as well. They climb up his legs crying profusely- little packed balls of wool- before noticing a new person and flushing in embarrassment. Haru blushes in turn as he is hugged by his parents.

Inside, Makoto pauses in surprise and confusion. For a second he suspected he was in another house altogether. The walls of the living and dining room, and the kitchen have been painted a new colour: a nice, light coral. There’s also a new TV.

“Do you like it? We had it done near the end of summer. Isn’t it just so beautiful?” His mother asks, beaming.

“Yeah… yeah, it’s… it looks great, mom,” he compliments somewhat absently. Haru gives him a mildly concerned look.

The new coral coloured walls made him realise that while he had been moving on with his life away from home, his home -and his family- too had adjusted to living without him. He was no longer a necessary participant or a witness to the changes in the town or in his home.

He remembers how in the early months of his moving, his parents would tell him every little thing happening back home and with the people they knew. He knew when a new shop had opened, a building torn down, or any purchase of significance for the household. Now he can’t remember when such things stopped being mentioned. In that moment, he feels alone and slightly untethered.

He brings himself back to the present by force and turns to properly introduce Haru to the twins, half expecting some radical change in them as well. But they are the same and he is relieved.

* * *

Before Makoto opens the door to his room for Haru, he asks him, “Have you… been in here before? I mean… do you know what it’s going to look like?” By that logic, Haru would know his parents too. The idea sits uneasily in his stomach, alarming him. Would be have been pretending to have met them as if for the first time?

Haru blinks in surprise, caught off guard. “No, I haven’t. You- he… he didn’t even have a family.”

Makoto’s grip remains on the doorknob. The sound of Haru awkwardly shifting the strap of his bag on his shoulders brings him out of his thoughts.

“Right,” he says and gives Haru a short, tight smile to disarm the moment and leads him inside.

* * *

 “Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived on a beach. He loved to swim in the ocean all day long.”

Ren and Ran’s shining, attentive faces look up at Makoto from where they sit on either side of Haru. Their craft supplies lay abandoned on the table. He smiles at them and continues.                                                                           

“One day he is visited by a starfish that tells him he’s actually the prince of the entire ocean! And now he has to sail across the ocean to find his kingdom.”

Ran raises a hand and asks, “Did he have a crown?”

Makoto pretends to think. “Hmm… I don’t remember. How about you make him one?”

There is a pause in the story as the kids scramble to draw a suitable crown, which Haru folds into an origami crown.

“So, they set sail in the boy’s bathtub, because they didn’t have a boat. And as they sail further and further into the ocean, the boy’s crown begins to glow with a bright light, and his eyes begin to turn bluer and bluer.”

“Like Haru-chan! Haru-chan’s eyes are blue!” Ren exclaims.

Haru startles as the three peer at him. Makoto gasps in mock surprise. “You’re right, Ren! They _are_ blue. Are you the secret prince, Haru-chan?”

“What-”

Makoto interrupts Haru by leaning across and carefully placing the crown over his head. It is a bit smaller in size so it perches precariously on the top. The twins erupt into joy, jumping and shouting. Makoto laughs with them. He catches Haru about to take the crown off, a blush spread across his cheeks.

 “Oh, come on! Don’t.”

Makoto gently straightens the crown slipping over Haru’s hair and brushes the hair lying across his forehead.

“You have pretty eyes, Haru,” he says a few seconds later.

Pretty and expressive. Haru’s soft smile softens more and then it’s barely there. Makoto’s touch stays on Haru longer than it should, long enough for it to be _something more_. Haru allows it and silently returns his gaze. The twins’ celebration around them subdues to white noise. What Makoto finds in Haru’s gaze are those nebulous feelings he had kept away in a box. But they are stronger and clearer.

* * *

Out of all the things they do together that week- the tiny sightseeing trips: visit to Makoto’s favorite food stall, favourite garden spot, café, cat gathering spot, town view point, all his favourites he wants to share- Haru probably enjoyed looking at the family photo albums with his mother the most. Not that it annoyed Makoto (it slightly did) but more than that, Haru’s reaction bewildered him.

He had rarely seen such a candid display of inquisitiveness, openness and simple joy from Haru. He even talked more than he usually did and asked questions. One album, two and then four, each accompanied by a running commentary by his mother, occasionally by his father, and he sits through them all, enthralled.

Afterwards, he excuses himself and makes his way to Makoto’s room. He follows Haru, sensing something amiss.

“Haru, are you okay?”

He finds Haru, arms folded, staring distantly at the view from Makoto’s window.

“Hey,” Makoto calls him softly. Drawing near, he sees the glisten in his eyes, the restrained tremble in his body.

“I’m okay, Makoto.”

“Then what is it?”

A smile tugs at Haru’s mouth, that turns into a beaming grin, and then a short chuckle.

“I love your family,” he says after a beat.

Makoto, speechless and slightly stunned, pulls him into a hug. This sweet boy will be the death of him. Haru’s face is warm against his shoulder. Those expressive eyes alight with happiness.

Haru goes back to Tokyo a few days earlier than when their holidays are supposed to end to meet up with his friends from his hometown. He asks in an adorably self-conscious way that has Makoto bite back a silly grin if he would come back a day before his friends are supposed to leave so he could meet them.

Makoto makes him scuff his boots against the train platform in uncertainty for a little while, sink his chin in his woolen scarf, glance every which way except at Makoto waiting for his answer. He feels bad about doing it but not enough to put him out of his misery yet.

“Yes, of course, Haru! That would be great!” he exclaims.

Haru visibly relaxes and boards the train with a wave goodbye.

* * *

“Mom, when did- how did you know dad was… that you…”

She looks up from her book and waits for Makoto to finish.

“You know…that.” He points to a photo of his parents at their wedding hanging on the wall.

“Oh. Well, honey. It took a long while. Like all good things do.”

She looks fondly to the kitchen where Makoto’s father is busy humming while he washes the dinner dishes.

“Yes but how did you know? Were there signs?”

She laughs. “Signs? That is only in movies and manga. Anything can be a sign if you are looking for one. But, yes,” she continues before Makoto can protest, “I know what you are asking.”

“It didn’t happen overnight for me. It took a long time and it was hard work. Falling in love is easy. To keep it going is the hard part, and _that_ is what is worthwhile. And your father was willing to do the hard work with me. That is when I knew.”

She leans over to smooth his hair. “Does that answer your question, honey?”

It hadn’t completely but it had helped. He smiles at her. She goes to the kitchen and says something over her shoulder to his father. They both chuckle softly. Makoto’s ears burn in embarrassment thinking that might have been about him. They begin to dry the dishes together.

* * *

Makoto hadn’t fallen in love with Asami right away, or even a month after they had begun dating. It was perhaps the time, a few months later, when she had held his face and said kindly that if he wasn’t ready for sex, it was alright. He was safe.

Asami had said he was safe with her, and he was in love.

But then, had it been love? The word seems mythic in its complexity and enormity. It was more than just the fact that he could not think about sex the way his friends did, or Asami did.

And there was, of course, Haru; he felt something for Makoto, he was sure. It had been a while since Haru had unabashedly begun to wear those feelings in his eyes. There were emotions and impulses between them that Makoto did not feel with Asami. The mere fact that they existed in him, was simultaneously terrifying in its newness and an explanation, finally, to many of his adolescent confusions.

Three days before he heads back to Tokyo, Makoto meets Asami. It’s a day with a cold winter drizzle. She does not rush to kiss him.

“A girl from my class gave me a flower,” she says delicately.

They look towards the falling rain and hear its pitter patter around them; on the muddy earth, on the metal sheets on roofs. 

“She said she likes me,” Asami continues. She turns to face him. “What do you think about that, Makoto?”

He does not feel any jealousy, he supposes he should. His first thought is ‘of course she would like you, that lucky girl’. But he doesn’t say it, afraid to hurt her. She knows his silences too. He sees the redness on the tip of her lovely nose, her glistening eyes. Why did he keep making her sad?

“What if I said I think I might like her too?”

Makoto reaches towards her and holds her cheek in his palm. How could he think he did not love her? How couldn’t anybody? It’s just that he knows there are different loves now. He can love Asami and he can love Haru. His mother loved his father but then they grew- and it grew between them- and then it was a different love.

He realizes that he, who had always equated Asami and their relationship with protection, did not need that safety anymore.

“Say something.”

He draws her in and tucks her into his arms.

* * *

Makoto is sitting across from a pair of Haru’s friends who are blatantly staring at him in great interest. Haru, who had been getting antsy for a while, finally snaps.

“Hey! Cut that out, guys.”

Makoto sends him an appreciative glance and attends to his hot chocolate, smiling politely. All the staring has made him nervous.

“I’m sorry, Haruka senpai,” Rei apologizes. He takes off his glasses, wipes and wears them again, peering once more at Makoto. “But the likeness is extraordinary. I did not mean to doubt your artistic talents to begin with but this is extraordinary.”

“Thanks, Rei, but stop saying extraordinary,” Haru says a little irritably .

“I didn’t know you guys had seen the painting,” Makoto interjects uneasily. How much did they know? Had they met _him_ as well? Did they see him as a counterfeit? He tries to send Haru a meaningful, questioning glance but it is difficult with his friends’ sitting across from them.

Just then, the last of Haru’s friends arrives in a flurry of brilliant red hair and an oversized fur lined jacket.

“Really sorry, guys. Sosuke was taking forever at that fucking sauna so I just left him there to boil. So what did I -” He notices Makoto, who extends a hand to greet him, and pauses.

“Oh. Oh wow, Haru. He’s uhh… wow, he _was_ real. Is, I mean is. Hi, I’m Rin, Haru’s long suffering friend.” He lets go of Makoto’s hand and looks at him in confusion. “I thought it was just a…”.

“Yes, exactly, Rin senpai! It’s extr-amazing!” Rei bursts out abruptly, glad that someone was taking his side.

Rin drops in the remaining empty seat. “I guess this is a sort of relief because for a while there I thought _that_ is a conversation I am _not_ qualified to have with you.” To Makoto it seems like Rin does not realize he is talking out loud. Rin’s eyes suddenly open wide, he leans over to Haru, whispers loudly and urgently, “Wait, does he even know? Shit, have I said too much?!”

“Woah there!” Nagisa jumps in. “Hey everyone, let’s not freak out the newbie. So, Mako-chan, let’s start over. What do you do? How do you find our Haru chan? He’s great, isn’t he?”

He is glad to have seen firsthand the love they have for Haru and how much he is precious to them. Haru had talked about them with Makoto and he had seen photos too, described with warmth and love. So, he could tell whenever Haru was on the phone with one of them. He seemed to soften and lighten with the conversation. Still, Nagisa chastises Haru for not being in contact enough and commandeers Makoto’s phone to add his contact information.

“Now Mako-chan will let me know what you’re up to,” he smirks gleefully.

Rin and Haru seem to be able to talk in glances too, like him and Haru. It’s a surprise and he doesn’t quite know how he feels about it. The painting doesn’t come up again so he is able to relax somewhat.

As they’re about to leave, Rin grabs Haru by his elbow and says, “We have some swimming stuff to talk about. Would it be okay, Makoto, if Haru catches up with you later?”

“Rin,” Haru tries to seem admonishing and glares at him, who returns the look with the same force. Haru sighs dejectedly and waves Makoto off.

They are closer than they appear to be, Makoto thinks. Rin and Haru sit back down in the cafe, in a booth by window spanning the wall. Makoto finds himself walking around the area. At first, he tells himself it is because Haru wouldn’t take long anyway. He can wait and they will go back together. But really it is more, the way he is hiding behind objects, their booth in his line of sight. He’s embarrassed of the fact that he is curious about their conversation. He turns up the collar of his coat and tries to hide his face.

Rin is gesticulating wildly, Haru sitting defensively across from him, appearing to answer tersely. The next instant confuses Makoto even more. Rin seems to deflate but is visibly in discomfort about whatever they’re talking. Haru comes out of his defensive mode and they warm up to their conversation. Rin does most of the talking.

Twenty minutes into his invasion of Haru’s and Rin’s privacy, Makoto decides to stop. He takes a final look at the window- catches Rin _actually blushing_ \- and makes his way to the bus stop.

* * *

He texts Haru that evening.

To: Haru

‘Did everything go okay with Rin? When did you get back?’

He throws his cellphone on the bed and makes his way to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Haru usually replied late. But this time his reply comes surprisingly early. At the sound of the ping, Makoto vaults towards the bed.

From: Haru

‘It was fine. He’s always like that’

To: Haru

‘Oh! That’s good then. I got a little worried.’

‘I liked meeting your friends, Haru. They’re fun.’

‘You really have a type, huh? I thought I was the special one with a name like yours.’

The tense ball in the pit of his stomach isn’t gone yet but he feels better. It isn’t like Haru would tell him every single detail of his and Rin’s conversation. He places the phone on the bed again and makes his dinner, deliberating whether to ask Haru about his friends’ knowledge of the painting.

Half an hour later, halfway through eating, he hears the ping of a message again.

From: Haru

‘He wanted to talk about his boyfriend.’

Makoto freezes with his spoon midair. He checks the sender again. Why would Haru tell him that? And even that unprompted? The ball in his stomach begins to swoop like clothes churning in a washing machine. He stares at the phone in confusion.

Then, unbelievably, another message from Haru. This time it’s a photo. It’s of Rin, grinning ear to ear, with his arm around a guy. Judging by the context, the other person is Sosuke. Tall, muscular, and very attractive, he’s grabbed Rin by his waist. They look incredibly happy. While this perplexes Makoto even more, there is also another feeling. The feeling he still isn’t prepared to take a closer look at but is getting harder to ignore. It lies behind Haru’s reason for sending the photo, loaded with meaning, and that moment at his house. _Did Haru know that he knew what Haru might feel about him? Could he know?_

To: Haru

‘Wow! Rin-kun didn’t look like the sort to keep photos.’

‘They look good together!’

Paradoxically, he wishes he could talk to Asami about this. He regards the photo of Rin for some moments and then decides to go for it. With a churning stomach, he types.

To: Haru

‘Haru? Can I ask you a personal question?’

‘Have you ever been in a relationship?’

‘I mean… I would know if you were in one now. But before.’

He wouldn’t be surprised if it was with Rin, or _him_ from the painting. There are agonizing minutes before his phone lights up with a text notification.

From: Haru

‘No, I haven’t’

‘Does that make me weird?’

Makoto sits up straight, excited and a little breathless by the fact that Haru was willing to talk about this. He replies immediately.

‘Of course not, Haru! Please don’t think like that!’

‘I’ve just… been thinking about some things from years ago. Things that make sense now. I think I liked my friend from school. But I’m not sure. He and I fell out during our last year.’

‘Is it weird that I’ve only realized this now?’

Makoto smiles to himself, thinking about him and Haru; two people seeking comfort in their mutual strangeness.

From: Haru

‘No, it isn’t Makoto’.

‘For Rin, he knew all along he was gay. It’s different for different people.’

The steady flow of sent and received texts pauses here. Makoto stares at the screen hoping for Haru to say something about himself. 20 minutes pass without a new text from Haru. He brushes his teeth, stares absently at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Does he feel relieved that Haru hadn’t been in a relationship with _him_? He found it hard to believe. Even if there wasn’t a relationship, that did not mean there wasn’t love.

He gives his phone another look before slipping into his bed. He startles in surprise to see two texts from Haru from ten minutes ago.

‘It’s okay Makoto. I still don’t know this about myself. Sometimes I think I am like Rin. Other times I don’t think I can feel something like that at all.’

‘I’m not worried about it.’

Makoto’s heart fills up with love and affection. It must have been difficult for Haru to reveal that, even to Makoto.

‘Thank you for sharing that, Haru. I feel a lot better!’

He wants to end their conversation here, at a relatively happy note, but he needs to ask Haru about his friends and the painting. He also doesn’t want to emotionally exhaust Haru any more than he would already be now. Haru replies to the question in his mind anyway.

‘My friends know about the painting, Makoto. They have known about it for a long time. I’ve told them it was someone I knew who went away. It was before I met you so I made the decision by myself.’

‘They don’t know about him.’

‘I wouldn’t know how to explain it.’

Though Makoto thinks Haru probably could not have handled that any other way, it still makes him anxious, and he feels the weight of that boy on his back. Those sodden, ragged paper cranes chocking his throat, clinging to his limbs. Did that mean that they think it’s him in the painting? He knows the answer to that already. And Haru knows that too. So he receives the last text of the night, a succinct ‘I’m sorry.’

* * *

Asami comes to meet him unannounced next weekend. He sees it in her face before she has to say it, the same way she had guessed it a year ago on that picnic.

He invites her in and wonders where would be the proper place to sit to do this.

Asami takes a seat on the floor, backed by his desk. Makoto sits on the floor too, opposite her, his back to the bedframe. They break up after 8 months of being together.

“You knew before I did, didn’t you? Last year before you came here. You saw it then,” she says. She looks exhausted, her face blotched red with crying. “And I remember I said we can do this. But I couldn’t- I can’t-” She breaks off into a fresh wave of tears.

Makoto digs his nails into his arms against the urge to reach across the space to comfort her. He is the one who caused her such pain. What comfort could he offer?

“Every time we meet, there is less of us and more of you and me,” she continues. “I was being stubborn and refusing to accept this. And you did what you always do. Went along with how things were. Because it’s safe. Because you’re nice.”

 “I hate this. I’m sorry,” he says thickly between tears. “I didn't want to hurt you.”

Asami huffs a laugh bitterly. “Makoto, how long would we have gone on like this if I hadn't come here today and said all this? Yes, I should have realized sooner how things were going but… Makoto, you can't hide away just because something is difficult.”

“But I want more than what you can give me. I _deserve_ more. I can't keep leading you by the hand. It's exhausting and it isn’t right.” Asami furiously wipes her cheeks. “So I need you to say it, Makoto. I need to hear it.”

Makoto bows his head, gathering his feelings into words. His throat is thick and rubbed raw with tears. “Asami, you…you have always taken care of me. And I… I have always taken advantage of that. I didn’t know I was doing it. I didn’t know it was hard on you.”

“I do feel love for you” Makoto wipes a hand across his wet face. “I know I do. I did from the beginning.  But then… I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm supposed to-”

“Makoto, that’s my point!” Asami bursts out. “You're not _supposed_ to anything! You didn’t- or couldn’t- love me the same way-”

“There isn't…. There isn't anyone else!” Makoto interjects hollowly, “I haven't- I didn't cheat or anything like that.”

Asami shakes her head. “It isn’t about that. We can’t force a feeling that isn’t there. I don’t want to feel like a bad person for asking this from you.”

“I want to!” he exclaims, and then deflates. “I… I wanted to. But I don’t think I can be in a relationship with you that way.”

Asami sits motionless as she absorbs this and then sighs tiredly. “People grow, people change.”

They look at each other. Growing up also means to accept changes, even the ones that hurt in unexpected ways.

“So let me go,” she says with finality.

They sit silent for a while, feeling wrenched. Makoto moves and sits next to her. She leans her head on his shoulder. They hold hands. Then they say goodbye. He wants to tell her that he still wants her in his life, that love will be there between them, but it doesn't seem like the right moment to say it. Someday, some other time, he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. Thanks for sticking with the story. Double thanks for the lovely comments of encouragement!


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